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The very hospital where Grant and Quintin Griffin had both entered the world was the same one the EMT workers had rushed Quintin to after his poor wife, Henrietta, found him in the bathroom after taking a deadly number of pills. Quintin now slept fitfully atop scratchy sheets in a single room, with a clear tube attached to the top of his hand. His lips remained blueish purple and sometimes, his eyes tossed back and forth behind his eyelids, as though the drugs had shot him into a strange dream state from which he would never wake.
The doctors had told Grant and Henrietta that he would awaken within the next day rather than linger on in this coma. “He was lucky,” one doctor had said. “If you hadn’t found him when you did, Mrs. Griffin, this would be a very different story.”
Henrietta was nothing but skin and bones wrapped in a dark paisley dress. She dotted her nose with a handkerchief and stared intently at the wall. Grant had never been particularly close with his brother’s wife yet had watched, helpless, as she’d generally closed up shop, mentally, after Frankie’s death. Quintin himself had never been particularly kind to her, as he’d expected her to fulfill the old-fashioned category of “wife and mother.” With their girls grown and one of them off the earth, Henrietta seemed like a tossed-out piece of furniture in serious disrepair.
“Melody will be here tonight,” Grant told Henrietta as his heart lifted. “She’s pretty dang worried about her stupid uncle.”
The joke landed poorly. Henrietta dabbed her nose again and then rose to trace the path back to the bathroom. This left Grant in the silence of himself as his head continued to hammer with his hangover.
The call he’d received the previous evening while at the hotel in Bar Harbor had been from Quintin himself. He’d slurred his words and told Grant that he had “absolutely nothing to live for anymore. It would be better if I was just dead.” Grant had recognized the seriousness of the situation and dashed out of the hotel as soon as possible, where he’d flailed a hand skyward and grabbed a taxi. The taxi’s cost had been exorbitant, and the last-minute flight hadn’t been anything to scoff at, either. Still, Grant had arrived in Montana around midnight, when he’d received the voice messages from Henrietta, saying that they’d taken Quintin up to the hospital. “It’s really touch and go right now,” she’d said through wails. “They don’t know whether he’ll live and they’re not telling me much.”
Around the time Melody’s flight landed, Grant hovered outside the airport in a rental vehicle and rubbed his palms together to warm them. He texted Henrietta again to check-in, but she seemed unwilling to engage with him. He texted Izzy instead, who reported that there was still no sign he’d wake up that evening.
It was a strange thing to love someone who was so messed up. Grant had watched the entire lifespan of Quintin Griffin with a mix of awe and horror. This wasn’t the conclusion of that, but it certainly felt like a monstrous climax.
Grant’s beautiful daughter, Melody, stepped out of the double-wide doors with a pair of overly-expensive sunglasses atop her head and a cherry-red coat wrapped tightly around her little frame. She hovered on the sidewalk for a moment until Grant hopped out to greet her. Her smile went straight through him, warming him like the first rays of morning light.
He realized now that he hadn’t seen her since July.
Suddenly youthful, Melody hurried toward him and wrapped her arms around him. He swung her around, as though she was that same little girl he’d helped raise in frigid New England. When he dropped her back on the sidewalk, her eyes glittered with tears.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Did she know about the divorce papers? Had Casey told her anything?
Did she even know that her existence was the reason he and Casey had married in the first place? She was no idiot; probably, she’d done the math.
“How’s he doing?” she asked finally as her voice cracked.
“He’s still sleeping,” he explained. “But the doctors say he’ll wake up either tonight or tomorrow.”
“Gosh.” Melody closed her eyes timidly. “When I saw his face on the television screen, I thought I was living a nightmare.”
Grant placed her backpack in the backseat of the truck and as Melody eased into the passenger side. Grant then jumped into the driver’s side and cranked the heat as Melody rubbed her cheeks, shivering.
Back up at the hospital, Melody hugged her Aunt Henrietta and then headed into her Uncle Quintin’s room to sit with him quietly. Grant sat beside her and tried his darnedest not to focus on Quintin’s bloated, strange-looking face. When they re-entered the hallway, Melody spotted her cousin Izzy and greeted her warmly, saying, “Gosh, Izz. I’m so sorry.” To this, Izzy just murmured, “It’s so good of you to come.”
Grant counted his lucky stars that his almost-famous, terribly sophisticated daughter found it within her heart to make time for her family. Somewhere in his past, he must have done something good to deserve this. He wasn’t sure what.
Melody admitted that she hadn’t eaten much of anything all day. They headed to the hospital cafeteria, where they ordered burgers, fries, and milkshakes and marveled that any hospital with any sort of commitment to health had such things on their menu. Armed with their sustenance, they sat across from one another as silence shrouded them. Grant placed his lips around the milkshake’s straw and sucked up the chocolate goodness.
“When Quintin and I were kids, we always got milkshakes at this little place at the side of the road,” he heard himself tell his daughter. “They were a quarter each.”
Melody’s smile was barely visible. “The other day in Brooklyn, I watched a girl spend nine dollars on a milkshake.”
“Nine dollars? We could have bought a whole horse for that price back then.” Grant tried a joke but felt it fall as flat as a pancake between them.
Melody bowed her head slightly. “I never really knew Uncle Quintin that well.”
“It makes me sad to hear you say that. I always wanted my kids to know my brother and his children. I guess the distance got the best of us,” Grant admitted.
“I always loved Izzy and Frankie.” Melody pressed her lips together and contemplated the French fry between her fingers. “I think Frankie’s death was the first time I really understood what death meant.”
Grant shook his head. “The tragedy was overwhelming for your Uncle Quintin, I think. Everything changed after that. The partying got worse. The gambling got worse.”
“The news today said that he’s lost all his wealth,” Melody said softly.
Grant dropped his eyes toward his still-untouched burger. How could he describe the once-brilliance of his brother to his daughter, now as they sat in the hospital awaiting his recovery from attempted suicide? It didn’t stack up.
“I’ve always had an immense amount of respect for my brother,” Grant offered then. “He was my hero when I was younger, always bigger, stronger, and more capable than me. He thought it was pathetic that your mother had this successful career while I played house with you kids.”
Melody furrowed her brows. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It was a different time back then,” Grant added.
“Not that different— and besides, wasn’t Uncle Quintin the one who picked Mom’s architectural design for the ranch? It was him who propelled her career forward?”
Grant nodded. It felt as though they spoke of a fictional story about characters he’d never really known.
Melody ate the edge of her French fry timidly. “When I saw the news’ story about Uncle Quintin, I was with Mom in Bar Harbor.”
Grant’s heart felt squeezed. He nodded firmly. “I guess you know, then.”
“I guess I do.”
“I hope you know that I’m not happy about any of it,” Grant breathed.
“Mom says it’s for the best,” Melody offered.
“I’m not convinced it is. But, you know your mother. She’s...”
“Strong of will?” Melody suggested.
“That’s a good way of putting it.” Grant swallowed to try to loosen his throat. “And it’s something I’ve always loved about her. I never imagined it would be our downfall.” He hated admitting this last word but felt it was necessary, there in the white-washed walls of the hospital cafeteria, to verbalize the truth.
That night, Grant drove Melody back to the Griffin Mansion, where they collapsed in separate guest rooms in preparation for what was assuredly going to be a very tumultuous and emotional few days. When they awoke the next morning, Melody prepared them a large pot of coffee and rifled through the fridge and pantry to prepare omelets with cheddar cheese and red onion.
“I never knew you could cook,” Grant stated as she slid a vibrant-looking omelet over his plate and dropped a dollop of sour cream over it.
“I had to learn how to cook on my own at some point,” Melody teased. “I didn’t always have my dad around in the morning to make me breakfast during college.”
Grant laughed appreciatively. “I remember chasing you out the door when you were a teenager demanding that you eat something before school. You were so resistant!”
“None of the cool kids ate breakfast, Dad,” Melody said playfully.
“That sounds reckless,” Grant returned. “You know that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“You’ve said it about a million times, yep,” Melody returned as she dug into her omelet. “I guess I’ve finally started to listen.”
Around nine, the two of them drove back up to the hospital to find Henrietta, Izzy, and Izzy’s child, Max, in the foyer, talking quietly. Grant greeted them warmly and received word that Quintin hadn’t awoken yet. He then glanced toward Melody, who gaped down at her phone as she received a call.
MOM, it read.
“I guess she’s probably worried,” Melody said distractedly. “I’ll just go tell her everything’s okay and come back as soon as I can.”
Grant nodded. “Take your time, honey.”
Melody walked down the hallway for a few minutes while Grant shifted his weight and leaned against the hallway wall. Izzy passed her son a book and muttered that he should read at least two chapters before lunchtime. Henrietta tore at her fingernails distractedly and watched the clock. Grant had never been particularly illuminated with the love between Henrietta and Quintin. It seemed outside the bounds of reason that it was him and Casey divorcing rather than the two of them. But what did he know?
Maybe divorce was mostly inevitable unless you turned a blind eye to your unhappiness?
Was that possible?
He didn’t want to believe it.
“How dare you?”
The whisper rang out from his right side, rasping and horrendous. He leaped up from the hallway wall to stare down at a stricken version of his daughter. All the color had drained from her cheeks, and her hands were drawn into fists on either side of her frame. She looked at him as though he was the devil incarnate.
“Honey? What are you talking about?”
Melody clucked her tongue. “I can’t believe I trusted you. All these years...” She then turned on her heel and stomped down the hallway toward the double-wide doors, leaving Grant in a state of stunned shock.
By the time he got up the energy to follow her, he raced down the hall, only to watch her drop into the belly of a cab and speed out of sight.
Chapter Fifteen
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CASEY HAD JUST DROPPED a bomb. The phone call to Melody hadn’t been her cleverest move, but in the wake of what she’d just learned, she had felt it a necessity. Melody had said she’d be on the first flight back to Maine, that now that she understood the truth, she would never darken a door in Montana again. “That weasel,” Melody had called her father, a sentiment that echoed Casey’s feelings about her own father, Adam. Generation after generation, men remained very disappointing.
Casey now stood on quivering legs in the foyer of Rachel Marris’s law office as Nicole and Heather sat before her, their faces marred with heavy worry lines. A strange painting of a fishing boat hung on the foyer wall. In the distance of the painting, an enormous wave swept up from the horizon line, poised to crash through the boat and destroy it. It was a fitting image for a divorce lawyer’s foyer. Casey’s marriage now felt like the boat in the picture.
Only an hour before, Rachel Marris had called to say that her subpoena had pinpointed a secret bank account, which Grant Griffin had set up three years before. The account was linked to a woman named Alyssa Limperis, whose address was listed as just down the street from the house where Quintin and Grant had grown up.
It was difficult, just then, to gauge who this Alyssa Limperis might be. Perhaps she was a previous lover in Grant’s life. Perhaps they’d rekindled things during one of Grant’s frequent trips back. Perhaps they’d discovered that their love, once-lost, sizzled stronger than ever in their late forties. Casey’s mind ran amok with every type of scenario possible. She had to shut off her thoughts and patiently wait, or she would go mad in the process.
Three years! Three years ago, he’d set up this secret bank account for this mysterious Montana woman! It seemed remarkable. Casey now counted out the various moments through their (admittedly little) time spent together.
Birthdays, Christmases, Fourth of Julys.
He had cuddled her close as she’d slept and brought her beautiful gifts from his trips and cooked up her favorite meals when he’d happened to be around. He had cracked jokes from his time on the road, showed off his new words in different languages (he’d recently taken on a good deal of Spanish), and teased her flirtatiously, in a way that had allowed her to believe that sometimes, they were still in love.
All the while, he’d had this other woman and this other bank account.
It was incredible.
Even still, Heather found the words now to say, “Maybe she’s mistaken.”
Casey scoffed. “I don’t know about that. How could you be mistaken about a hidden bank account? And it’s too perfect. She’s from his hometown, for crying out loud.”
Nicole closed her eyes against the horror of it all. At that moment, Rachel Marris stepped out of her office and greeted them.
“I’m so sorry to bring you in here like this,” she said. “I figured you’d want to know as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” Casey replied with a heavy sigh. “It’s better to face the music straight on.”
Nicole, Heather, and Casey sat across from Rachel Marris as Rachel Marris turned the large computer screen around to face them. This way, they could see the exact date that Grant had opened this secret bank account, linked that same account with Alyssa Limperis, and deposited a steady stream of funds into that same bank account, once per month, over the past three years like clockwork.
The funds equated to fifty thousand dollars per year or one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in total.
“I did some digging on Alyssa Limperis,” Rachel Marris continued. “She’s thirty-two, with...”
“Excuse me? Thirty-two?” Casey asked as laughter rippled through her. She could feel her skin start to crawl as the anger engulfed her.
“That’s right,” Rachel affirmed.
“At least she’s not twenty-two,” Casey tried to joke.
Heather grimaced.
“She has three young children, all under the age of five,” Rachel Marris continued.
“What?” Casey cried, hardly recognizing her voice. “Three children?”
Rachel nodded as her eyes hardened. “I told you. I see things like this all the time. Worlds that men think they can create when their wives aren’t looking. I’m terribly sorry, Casey. I really am.”
Nicole wrapped a hand over Casey’s and gripped it as hard as she could. Casey blinked down at the ground for what seemed like a small eternity.
All she could visualize, just then, was Grant with Donnie and Melody, twenty years before. He’d been the world’s greatest father. He’d written down every menial event. He’d championed everything from vegetable-eating to tricycle-riding to picture-drawing.
Now, he assuredly did that with another woman, with another family.
“Three children,” Casey repeated. “I just can’t wrap my mind around it.”
“You said he only spent about half the year with you at home in Portland?” Rachel asked for clarification.
“That’s right. I guess I understand why, now. Three kids is a whole lot of work,” Casey affirmed with a sniff. “At least now, he can head off and live his life with her publicly and not have to worry about it being a secret any longer.”
“But why did he stay in Bar Harbor so long to try to win you back?” Heather demanded. “It doesn’t make any sense if he has this whole other life.”
Casey shrugged flippantly. “You know men. They never know what they want until they lose something.”
Rachel’s eyebrows rose. “It’s a frequent story.” She then cleared her throat as Nicole’s grip tightened still more around Casey’s hand, so much so that it threatened to shatter Casey’s bones.
“I would suggest now that we go over the next steps of the divorce proceedings,” Rachel advised. “So that we’re prepared for every angle.”
A half-hour later, Casey stumbled back out into the swirling winter wonderland of downtown Bar Harbor. Nicole and Heather were hot on her heels, protesting how quickly she walked away from them. Five cars away sat the very one Grant had left behind. Just as Nicole had said, it was already lined with bright yellow parking tickets. Casey stood before it and blinked at the stupid air freshener she’d hung on the rearview mirror. If she remembered correctly, it smelled of “the ocean.”
“I can’t believe he’s done this to our family. I hate him,” she whispered, mostly to the car.
Heather and Nicole hustled up behind her and exchanged glances. Nobody knew what to say. Casey was empathetic to her sisters’ situation. She wouldn’t have known how to console her, either.
After a long pause, Casey lifted her chin toward the grey skies above. Damp dollops of snow landed on her cheek and her forehead and the tip of her nose. It seemed incredible that she could still feel something as tender and beautiful as a December snowfall. It seemed incredible that there was still something beautiful to know in this world, now that she’d learned the truth.
“It’s so strange,” she said finally as her eyes closed. “It’s strange to think about marriage. About all the mistakes you both make and about all the ways you know one another, inside and out, for better or for worse. Strange that you can know their allergies and their fears and the movies they love the most— and still feel as though you know nothing at all.”
Heather and Nicole collected themselves on either side of Casey and burrowed themselves against her. Nicole’s arms tightened around her stomach while Heather massaged her shoulder.
“The important thing now is that we have one another,” Heather murmured.
“We never needed anyone else,” Nicole agreed.